The Rogue

by Sandy Blair

“Man, are ye blind? She needs help.” Had Angus not been the cause of her injury, he would have dropped her on their rush pallet and walked out the door. But having been the cause, he snarled as he grabbed the offered dressings. “May ye receive as ye give.”

  He stormed out. Spying an empty sheep pen at the far end of an adjacent field, Angus vaulted over the low-lying hedge with his mount following.

  He kicked open the pen’s gate and laid the woman in the hay. Muttering, “Heathens,” he raised her skirt and removed the cloth he’d wrapped around her waist. He felt monumental relief finding no fresh blood. He’d expected gushes given the jarring speed with which he’d carried her to the village.

  He applied the greasy herb poultice the Macarthur woman had given him to the lady’s gash, rewrapped her waist and then settled her skirt back about her legs. He then sat back on his haunches and pondered his dilemma. He studied her face. After a minute, he ran a gentle finger along one jet-black winged eyebrow. And then her lips, so wide and full, they could break any man’s heart. Ack.

  “Who, lass, do ye belong to? Where will ye be safe?” He couldn’t leave her here. Not after the reception they’d received. And why was there terror in the querulous man’s eyes as he’d bidden him take the poultice and go? “Do ye belong to their enemy’s liege lord, lass? Were ye lost when I found ye?” He heaved a sigh. One thing was certain. They couldn’t tarry here. When word arrived at the Macarthur stronghold that a MacDougall rode among them, all hell would rain down on their heads.

  Time to go.

  He slipped both arms under his unwanted lady and stood. He’d been heading northwest, traveling through the upper lowlands toward Beal Castle and couldn’t change course. If he couldn’t find her people on the way, then mayhap the MacCloud would ken from whence the lass came, or at least take her in. Aye.

  He mounted, settled the lady securely in his lap, and pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.

  As they reached the last of the village’s fields the gangly lad he’d seen in the croft stepped out from behind a copse of pine. Sweating—his gaze darting along the road— the lad held out a cloth bundle. “Sir knight, ‘tis for the spae, tribute for the dolly.”

  Angus scowled. What spae and what dolly? “Lad, out of my way.”

  “Please, sir.” The lad hopped from foot to foot as he held out the bundle. “‘Tis only barley, sir, but all I have to offer.” His gaze again darted toward the village hidden behind a copse. “Sir, convey our thanks, mine and Margaret’s.” The lad tossed the bag up and ran.

  Catching it, Angus called, “Ye name, lad?”

  The lad turned. “Jamie, m’lord.”

  “And this lady’s?” He tipped his head, indicating the woman in his arms.

  The youth shrugged. “I dinna ken, m’lord. No one does.” He then disappeared.

  Angus slipped the lad’s gift into the bag tied behind his saddle. Why had the lad asked him to give the bundle to a spae? He kenned none. “Humph! These Macarthurs are a breed apart. Aye, and I’ll be most relieved to be away.” He pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.

  ~#~

  Laird Ian Macarthur glared at his ferrier Robbie Macarthur. “What the hell do ye mean he rode off with her? He who?” He couldn’t believe someone had had the audacity to capture his bandrui, his personal spae.

  Robbie spun his cap in nervous hands. “I dinna ken his name, sire. Just that he’s a knight.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Tall, brawn, dark-brown-haired, blue-eyed.”

  Laird Macarthur stopped pacing before Dunbar Castle’s empty hearth. “Oh, for—. What banner? What colors did he wear? What horse did he ride, ye idiot?”

  Robbie had the sense to pale before his wrath.

  “He wore gules—the color of blood, sire. His shield was quartered and bore a raised gauntleted fist. He rode a white charger.”

  Ian Macarthur’s blood immediately drained from his head. “Did he bear a scar above the eyes?”

  Robbie nodded. “Do ye ken him, sire?”

  “Oh, aye. ‘Tis I who put the scar on him.” Ian ground his teeth as a searing heat began throbbing below his wrist, phantom pain from a right hand no longer there, thanks to the bastard Angus the Blood. Only MacDougall would dare cross into Macarthur territory—alone—and take his spae. Foolhardy and proud was Angus MacDougall and now it would be the man’s downfall.

  Reaching for his broadsword with the only hand left to him, he ground out, “Saddle the horses.”

  ~#~

  Birdi yawned, wondering why the lovely rocking had ceased. It had been most pleasant, being cradled in warmth, listening to the slow steady heartbeat under her ear—

  Her eyes flew open.

  A man—the largest she’d ever beheld—hovered over her as she lay on the ground.

  She screamed.

  His large, calloused hand landed firmly on her mouth. “Hush, lass, I’ll not harm thee.” He then looked about.

  In a deep, gravelly whisper he told her, “I am Angus MacDougall. I found thee in a Macarthur glen.”

  Gael! He spoke not the language of her mother or the villagers but of them—the Canteran—the marauding Highlanders of which her mother had warned.

  She clawed at his arms and tried to kick, to roll away, only to feel a fierce pain tear through her side. She gasped and froze in place. Stars! What had happened to her? She looked down, found her thighs bare and her kirtle up about her waist, a waist wrapped in white. Keening, she frantically tried to cover herself, the part—her mother had warned—where she would always be most vulnerable.

  He pressed her shoulders to the soft earth. “The bleeding has stopped, my lady, but do not aggravate the wound with thrashing. Please.”

  “What...?” Sunlight haloed the man hovering over her. She blinked eyes gritty from sleep in disbelief. He had shoulders thrice the width of hers and arms as thick as an elm’s trunk. She couldn’t discern his features, the sun keeping them in shadow, but could see the outline of shoulder length hair the hue of wet river rock, a few strands gleaming with a touch of amber. A chilling sweat broke out across her brow and her heart leapt as her ears strained, her gaze darted about. Her nose twitched in a futile effort to recognize where she was, who he might be. She took a deep, steadying breath and managed, “Where am I?”

  “Ah, ye speak Scot.” Using the same he told her, “Where ye be, fair lass, can wait for later. What I need ken now is yer name and from whence ye hail. We need find yer sept so they can care for ye properly.”

  “Sept?” What was this? She craned her neck to see beyond his mountainous form and found nothing but a small square block close to them, no doubt a sheep crib, and the rest just broad splotches of gold in all directions. She inhaled deeply and this time caught the sent of ripening havers—oats. She was in a field. In the open! Oh Goddess, No! Did this man plan to do to her what the other had done to Minnie?

  Goddess help me! I dinna want a babe! Goddess, please! Nay!

  Horror sent blood roaring into her every limb. Keening between pants, she clawed. Finding herself suddenly free, she scrambled backward. Brittle shafts of grain dug deep into her palms and feet as she tried to place as much distance as possible between herself and the man who would do her immeasurable harm.

  He caught her ankle.

  Squeaking in tight-throated terror, she kicked her free leg at his head only to have it trapped by a heavily calloused hand, as well. Before she could scream he yanked her forward by the ankles and loomed over her on hands and knees, his long thick fingers managing to lace through hers and press her hands firmly into the earth by her head. His knees then locked onto her hips as he blocked out the sun. “Where,” he asked in a soft growl “do ye think ye’re goin’ without so much as a by-yer-leave?” He dipped his head and sniffed.

  She managed a screamed this time but his mouth locked onto hers, smothering the sound. Her eyes flew wide in shock. What manner of predator was this? No weasel, no fox on the hunt did such. She stared into deep b
lue eyes and waited—her breath hitching, heart hammering at her ribs—waited for his mouth to slide from hers and settle on her throat. Waited for the pain, the crunch of bone, for her neck to snap.

  Instead his lips soften, the pressure eased. She then felt the tip of his tongue stroke her bottom lip. Once. Twice. Just a lick, nothing more, yet a searing tingle raced down her spine. Her heart tripped. Was he tasting her? Testing her health and soundness as meat? Oh Goddess, please!

  To her monumental relief he lifted his head. As he did, his hair swung around his face and the tips brushed her cheek. To her surprise his hair felt as soft as her own, mayhap more so. Yet she held her breath, didn’t dare release the last one she might ever take.

  “Ye, fair lass, are as sweet as I feared.”

  As he feared? She was the one about to be eaten alive! To be torn apart and then ground down between brilliant white teeth set in a menacingly square jaw. “Nay!”

  In response, he released her hands and settled back on his haunches, his mountainous weight keeping her hips trapped. “Aye. Definitely too sweet to be running loose, lass.” He sighed heavily. “I mean ye no harm, though ‘twas I who felled ye and for that I humbly apologize; I meant only to save ye from the wolf.”

  Wolf! She’d forgotten poor Wolf. Dreading the answer, she asked, “Is he dead?”

  “Nay. My blade missed him and struck thee.” He ran agitated hands through his hair, pushing it off his face. “How I missed, I’ve yet to ken.”

  Her relief in learning Wolf survived was sorely dampened by his admission that he’d been the one who brought Wolf down. Her breath caught in her chest. This man killed without thought.

  Angus ground his teeth, seeing fear and fresh tears erupt from behind the lass’s heavily lashed, ice-blue eyes. Feeling the strong need for a stiff drink—a gallon of whiskey would do nicely—he brushed a calloused thumb across her delicate cheek. She jerked. Dear God above, she did look the hizzie with her face all scarlet, her brow furrowed, and her teeth bared. He’d have laughed but for knowing it would only terrify her more. Many a brawny man had soiled his sarks when Angus laughed—and without being sat upon, though he was usually holding a blade to the bastard’s throat...

  “Lass, ye have nay reason to fight me. None. I promise. Hush now.” He moved to her side, but held tight to one hand. “There now. Better?”

  “Aye.”

  As she took a few shuddering breaths, he looked at her side. Finding no fresh blood, he blew out a breath in relief. Now, to the matter at hand: finding out who she was and to whom she belonged. “What, lass, is yer name?”

  She eyed him like a cornered timber-wolf; her magnificent, icy eyes narrowed, her straight nose twitching and sniffing as her head cocked ever so slightly first this way, then that, as if listening for a rescuer. Or a means of escape. ‘Twas a futile effort. He was not called Angus the Blood for naught.

  Finally she murmured, “Birdalane.”

  Birdalane? Nay. She must have misunderstood him, for no mother with any sense would burden her bairn with such a sorrowful moniker, an endearment reserved for a babe without kith or kin. “Lass, I meant yer Christian name.” He had to have her surname—her clan—if he was to be free of her and on his way.

  She hiccupped and whispered, “Birdi?”

  She sounded none too sure. “Birdi it is then.” Obviously he need take another approach. “And yer sire?”

  She pressed her lips into a hard line. “Shame.”

  Shame? To his knowledge there wasn’t a clan of that name. And she certainly couldn’t mean nairich—debasement. Surely. He studied her for a moment then decided she’d coshed her head when she fell. She wasn’t, after all, a stout lass. Aye, ‘twas most likely a blow to the noggin that caused her current confusion. He resigned himself to being patient and asked, “Are ye in pain, Birdie?”

  Her eyes grew round as an owl’s. Aha. Had their roles been reversed he wouldn’t have answered either, for fear of giving his enemy another tool to use against him. “I shall take that as an aye, but fear not. I shall take ye to yer people.”

  If possible, she appeared more frightened and vehemently shook her head. “Nay! Please, sir, turn me loose.”

  “Did ye run away from home?” No doubt, intent on thwarting a liege who wanted to marry her to someone she found distasteful.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Nay, ye took me from home!”

  “Humph!” Well, time was fleeing. He’d already lost a day and couldn’t very well go courting with the likes of her—an incredibly bewitching though thoroughly disheveled wench—at his side. Had he been closer to Blackstone he would have left her under Duncan’s protection, but that wasn’t an option. Staring at her lush lips once again, he heaved a resigned sigh for things that might have been.

  She hiccupped as she nibbled her lower lip. “I have need of privacy.”

  He frowned before realizing why. “Ah, but are ye sure ye can manage on yer own?”

  She nodded like a sandpiper. He rose and offered his hand. She looked askance, and he couldn’t help but grin. “I promise I’ll not bite.”

  Looking none too sure that he’d keep his word, she took his hand. He pulled her to her feet and pointed to the sheep crib. “Back there, lass, behind the hay. I’ll stand guard at the gate.”

  She wobbled off, a hand clutched to her side. Mercy, even hobbling she was a sight for his travel-weary soul. Her hair billowed like gossamer jet about her hips and caused his hands to clench as they had when he’d first spied her by the pool.

  He turned his back to her. With his gaze raking the valley for Macarthurs, his memory conjured up the image of her emerging like a mythical kelpie, dripping and glistening from the pool; recalled the delightful tilt of her rose-tipped breasts and the roundness of her very bonnie hurdies. Lord, she had the finest arse he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a good few in his nine-and-twenty years.

  He fervently wished he could keep her.

  And why couldn’t he?

  He wasn’t yet promised to another. He had no idea what awaited him at Beal Castle. For all he kenned, the available MacCloud lass would be another sorry sight. Or wode, as crazed as the last lass offered to him. “Humph.”

  Too, his family did have a long history of reeving brides. Wasn’t his own ma once a reluctant Border bride? And look how well that turned out—his da had been chasing her skirts the day he died. Aye, there was something to be said for keeping with family tradition.

  But then he’d wagered he could bring home a lady, a chatelaine for Donaliegh. And Angus was a man of his word. Grunting, he decided the only right thing to do was to keep with his plan. He looked into the shadows of the crib. An inordinate amount of time had passed; more, certainly, than was needed for a wee lass to hike her skirts and piss. Fearing she might have fainted, he ducked under the rafters and called her name. Getting no response, he peeked behind the hay pile.

  She was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Out of breath, Birdi plopped down in the middle of her blurry gold world. She was lost. Just minutes from the sheep crib and hopelessly lost.

  But, she reminded herself; so long as she breathed there was hope. But how would she find her way back to her croft when she could glean only an arm’s length before her? How could she find home without kenning how far she’d traveled or in which direction to go. But find home she would. She had to, or she’d surely perish. Or worse.

  And time was working against her—the Canteran would soon realize she’d escaped.

  She raised her face to the sky and closed her eyes. Arms extended, her palms to the sun, the salt from past tears coating her lips, she pleaded, “Goddess, please guide me home. Please. I’m so very frightened.” She then began crooning the chant of entreaty Minnie had taught her so many seasons past; one she’d never imagined she would ever need.

  “Birdeee! Where the hell are ye, lass?”

  Oh no! She spun. Stalks thrashed and snapped behind and to her right. The Canteran was close and searching
for her.

  “Birdalane Shame! We havena time for games!”

  Sweat broke out on her brow and trickled between her breasts. Her hands began to shake. Would it be safer to remain, crouched in shoulder-high oats, hoping the brut wouldn’t find her, or to bolt? Chewing her bottom lip, she keened, “What to do, what to do?”

  The Canteran made the decision for her, his footfalls sounding dangerously close. She rocked onto her hands and knees and scrambled as fast as she could through the slicing stalks, heading away from his voice.

  Aaawooo! Her heart leapt as Wolf’s cry echoed off hills and across the field. He’d found her! She jumped to her feet and spun, trying to catch his direction.

  Aaawooo!

  There! Wolf stood somewhere directly before her—away from the setting sun and the Canteran. She ran. Heart pumping at a furious pace, her legs raced through golden grain. She ran like she had never run in her life. “Thank you, Goddess, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Birdi! Stop!”

  She ran blindly, tears of relief coursing down her cheeks, toward her howling savior, her pet. He would guide her home. Home.

  “Birdi!”

  Angus broke into a run. “God’s teeth!” Could she not hear the damn wolf? Could she not see him pacing in nervous anticipation just a hundred yards before her?

  Angus thundered through the waving thigh-high havers, his lungs pulling in great gulps. If he didn’t catch up with her she’d charged straight into the great beast’s gaping jaws. Christ’s blood!

  He was fifty feet from her—just a few long strides from grasping her—when she screeched and disappeared.

  Simply vanished.

  “What the...” He couldn’t believe his eyes. The wolf forgotten, he raced on and nearly fell into a glack. He swung his arms like windmills, righted, and stared into the previously unseen ravine. And there he found her, six feet below him—panting, her arms and legs spread like a spider’s—clinging to a narrow sandstone shelf some twenty feet above a dried-out riverbed cluttered with back-breaking boulders.

  He dropped to his belly.